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       Hola, Me llamo Jonathan Ford. Soy, alto, fuerte,y inteligente. Me asistir a Eastern University. Me tambien tengo un amigo el nombre Jessica. Ella es baja, cómica and inteligente. Ella asistir a Eastern university. Ambos Jessica y me son inteligente.
 

Me llamo Yamayra Melendez. Soy de estatura baja, inteligente, y bonita. Soy estudiante. Mi amiga se llama Yessica. Ella es baja, Buena, e inteligente. Yessica es estudiante. Nosotras somos morenas.

Ada Trilllo abrió su exposición. Inauguró la exposición  el 19 de Julio. Esta dando una voz a las prostitutas de ciudad Juarez con las fotografias. Trillo hizo las fotografías en blanco y negro.

Now I'm studying English, German and Polish. My native languages are Russian and Ukrainian.So if you want to find Russian or Ukrainian tutor ,contact me!

Can you hear the inner voice?

It is always asking...
Those questions, that inquisitive probing. The old "W" queries.

Reality is a foggy sea where our selves sail, each one of us in a different boat.

Some are full of lights and contraptions to send signals, other with just a positioning light and a small flag. Others again not even wearing those scanty tools.

We drift along.

Sometimes we are so near one another we think we can communicate and start to send frantic signals from our decks.

From the other boat seems as if there was an understanding and it sends signals back.

After a while we feel we are communicated, but are we?

Up to a point, maybe, enough to drift along, to feel we are not utterly alone, it is possible to exchange tokens, but we cannot, ever, to board the other boat, to feel the "other" reality.

Questions stand alive, scorching us as a burning iron:

Why am I estranged this way?
What is the reason of this severe exclusion?
How can I feel other people feelings, share their tenets, know what "red" means, really means, in their minds, and why I cannot do it?!

Cool!

Like it or not we must treasure second best, that poor imitations of true sharing: friendship, partnership, love, or worst yet "third best": hugs, kisses and that being so near but never near enough! Poor sad, frantic signals sent from our loneliness.

Is this all that there is? Is madness the ruler of this happenstance?
If you tell me that you believe this, I respect your belief, but is it all?

How I, or even you for that matter, know it is true.
Have you dived into the deep inners of your consciousness?
Have you probed all possibilities?, or this belief is only the product of disappointment, an expression of rage against the unassailable fortress of the unknown.

Do you think the unknown exists? Can I say I do not know the unknown and still look into my own feelings?

Seems so sad but no, it is not so...

Cheer up! in this reality there is no eternity, nothing is forever and that is good!

© 2017 Montxo.

This was home for some time.

Free space, great view of the sea, fish, salty smells, and waves.

Ninety five miles from mainland and solitude make the day to day chores important.

A babel of Portuguese, Indonesian, Chinese, Thai, some German, a tbsp. of Spanish, several flavors of English... and Pidgin, of course, and when all these failed the windmill of hand language; anything to get through in human communication.

Sometimes, father Poseidon wanted to know what were those weird biped doing on the platform, so it raised tall waves, asked Eolo to roar with high gales, and Zeus to send rain as a heavy curtain to clean the atmosphere and thunderbolts to see better. Awesome and scary, those who were not working on the deck ran downstairs to the cozy and covered entrails of the platform.

When the full moon started to rise on a calm sea everybody was on the deck, it was a sacred view. Casta diva in her pure splendor.

I wondered many times: we were coarse, hard men toiling in a difficult and dangerous task but the mystic of a full moon mesmerized us as if we were a bunch of poets with a sensible soul...

... but then again, maybe we were and we had it.

© 2017 Montxo.

It is here, the silence, this blessed vacuum the world have forgotten. The expectation of what is to come...

The first score of "E lucevan le stelle" starts in the voice of Beniamini Gigli, almost without breaking the silence!
Oh! miracle of the sounds blended with stillness in a corporate spirit under the pale light of the stars. Recollection begins:

Even the creaking of the gate of the orchard when Floria arrives is a compound of anticipation.

Love is a misconception, selfless giving is nearer to love than to please or to be pleased. Floria's scent is a heady feeling, her languid rest in Mario's arms, the sweet kisses and the slow caresses, the feverish movements of Mario's hands divesting her of her veils make us think of LOVE, but it is only love.

Exhilarating, intoxicating love, the pleasure of contact, of possessing, of being possessed, to please, to be pleased, but not to give with no reward. Valid?, yes! Needed?, of course! Species require this!

But...

What is left if we accept this irrational notion?, this idea, crazy idea, of giving without waiting a reward! where is Romance?, the bitter-sweet pathos that gives life in that starred night, the last night of Mario's life, to the melancholic feeling of loss and belonging?

So love becomes Love, something in between, neither the whole LOVE, nor the unconscious "sarko", the half animal compulsion that keep us alive. Romanticism is saved, life is worth to be lived!

But time "fugit", time is an uncompromising vector born and lost in Eternity. It does not understand anything except flowing and Mario cannot stop the need of expressing his disappointment in losing life when he loved it most...

© 2017 Montxo.

The best way to be lost in reality is to keep a book open.
 

Today is a melancholic, slow paced day. I can see through the window patches of the garden already soaked, even if only a fine drizzle is coming down from a forbidden sky.

This drizzle has been painting the landscape with its wet small brushes for hours now. The sun, hiding its magnificent corolla from humankind behind the thick cover of low clouds, is a wraith in "firedom".

I feel alone but not lonely; seeking to disperse the foreboding this misty rain brings to my soul I went digging into my library and lo! in one of the small shelves, to the left, in the Fantasy classification tab I found:

Fredric Brown's From these Ashes

Back, back in time, out of the drizzle, out of the melancholic mood, out of this world, into reality of fiction, into illusion and mirth...

© 2017 Montxo.

The conquistador marches with steady pace over the littoral. There is almost no defense for the decimated tribe. The warriors cling together around the lifeless body of the last chieftain. What can they do? Who can take command?
 

From the back of the forest a small figure condensed itself in front of the group, it is almost a girl yet. With a grieving countenance she approached the body while the surly men make room for her, she kneels and laying a flower on the dead chest exclaims in a high voice: "Your death would not remain unpunished, father!". The worried men looked each other, a question in their eyes, how? what promise can make this little young woman when no one of them feels confidence in their forces? But the girl stands and with the arm high over her head cry: Revenge!

The men feel they are dragged by a new power, now they will teach a lesson to the invader. The push emanating from the small girl reached out compromising the strangers' faith in their strength, daring and courage are loyal companions of our little heroine.

The conquistadores are powerful, finally they capture the indomitable little woman and seeking to teach a lesson to the rebels decide end her life cruelly in the stake. A twiggy weak tree, leafless and opaque is to serve as stake. The night looks impassible the terrible torment and an astounded dawn saw that the fire and the feminine body turned into a red corolla that crowned the tree and transformed it in a living memory of a brave soul when over the ground rises a ceibo in flower!

© 2017 Montxo.

I own it! I say stubbornly!

I do not want to lose it.

But I cannot stop it!
Its existence is sheer energy.
It dissolves in my insides
to come back in a coalescent mist.
It wants to see the light, it deserves it.

Not because its qualities but only for being

I cling to it tenaciously, but it is too late

Here it is: My micro-tale

© 2017 Montxo.